iNeed Twenty Thousand Dollars
by sweetiepie1019
Summary: Formally iSAM! ... When Sam breaks the iCarly camera, she and Freddie will have to get jobs to pay for a replacement. Turns out things can happen when they're left to their own devices ... Seddie NEW CHAPTERS COMING SOON!
1. Chapter 1

AN: Ok, so I wrote this story for Loliver where I mentioned that I had fallen for two random couples this summer – Loliver and Seddie. Which is sad, because I'm way too old for this. I grew up with Lizzie McGuire, dude. But I was in need of fluff, and so I wrote a Lollie oneshot, and guess what I found out? I'm not that good at writing younger-sounding stuff. Well, this is to fix that. It's going to be a pretty short story about Sam and Freddie. Not even entirely sure what it's about yet. We'll see, huh? Alright, go, read.

Disclaimer: If I owned iCarly, I'd have them play the ages they are. I mean, if all three of them are fifteen and sixteen, why play thirteen and fourteen? I don't understand …

When I was seven years old, before my mom completely went off the edge and a couple months after Dad left, I pushed Little Lonnie Leiber out of a tree.

In my defense, he pulled my hair. In his defense, breaking his leg in two places was probably an overreaction. At least that's what my therapist said.

A therapist. Yup. One of those kid shrinks that use puppets and junk like that. His name was Dr. Grunder. He told me that I had anger issues that resulted in violent impulses that stemmed from my father abandoning me and my mother's detachment.

Whatever. In the end, my mom stopped remembering to take me after about six sessions, but some of it sunk in. Since Lonnie, I've never broken anyone's anything – well, not anything bigger than a toe.

Still. I've got anger issues.

Major anger issues.

For instance, what I just did to Freddie's camera. I mean, why mess it up? We need it for iCarly. Besides, it costs more than my apartment (or that's what Freddie keeps saying) and if I break it, Mrs. Benson has to get a new one, and if Mrs. Benson knows that _I_ messed it up, she won't let me anywhere near Freddie until she gets distracted by a new scent of tick bath bubbles or whatever. And then there's definitely no iCarly.

But there I was, making a jerky and peanut butter and jelly sandwich when it hits me that Freddie left his camera all alone upstairs. And that I've got peanut butter. And I've got jelly. And how fun it would be to do something with that peanut butter and jelly and the lonely old camera.

Ten minutes later, I had what I thought would be my masterpiece. Sticky tan and purple spreads were poured over the camera, sliding down the tripod, and dripping onto the floor. I had used squirtable jelly to write my name on Freddie's computer, and was now happily resting in a beanbag, squirting grape into my mouth. I'll say one thing about anger issues – they're fun.

"Carly? Sam? Spencer? Where is everyone?"

I leapt up immediately. "I'm up here, Freddie!" I yelled, sprinting down to meet him. Swear to God, this was better than Christmas.

We met on the stairs. There was a second before Freddie became suspicious. Just one. That was the best thing about pranking Freddie. He kept up. I didn't have to wait for him to understand what was going; I didn't have to worry about him catching up. With Freddie, there was instant gratification. Just come in, say hi, sense something's wrong, see prank, get mad.

There were times when I really appreciated having an easily targeted dork I was so in tune with.

And right on cue, Freddie's face scrunched up. "Sam?" he asked. Only it sounded more like "Saaaammmmm?" That's the way he says my name when he thinks I've done something wrong. It was probably the smile. There's this evil little smile I do sometimes. Freddie, needless to say, has seen that smile a lot.

"Sam!" His voice was sharp and pointed. See, that's when he _knows_ I've done something wrong. He just doesn't know what it is yet.

"Yes, Fredward?" I asked politely. It was too soon to trip his wire. It's no fun if he gets there too soon. I loved watching his suspense.

His eyes narrowed. "Sa-am." That's how he says my name when he's trying to reason with me. "You didn't do something to my equipment again, did you?"

He even guessed what I messed with! I'm so lucky to have such a good bully-geek relationship. Gibby never guesses what I messed with.

"No," I tell him. Then I snicker. Oh, no. Too early.

"SAM!" And that's how Freddie says my name when he knows that I've done something, knows what I did it to, and is now very, very angry about it. And off he went, charging up the stairs, throwing open the door, and screaming like a girl when he saw his camera.

I have no idea what he said when he actually saw the thing. His voice gets all high pitched, like my tattoo artist cousin did when she took out the spike in her nose and everything came out with a whistle.

As he was wailing something about money and giving his great-aunt sponge baths for a month, Carly came in. The evil smirk slid from my face like the jelly off of the computer monitor.

"Hey, Carly," I said, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

She grinned. "Hey. You've got peanut butter in your hair."

"Really?" I looked down at it with some interest. My hair was so long, and my eating habits were so similar to a caveman's, that I tended not to notice things like that anymore. "Cool."

"Bad Sam! No!" Carly rushed up to pull the peanut buttered hair away from my mouth as I attempted to eat it off. Whatever. It's my hair. It's my peanut butter.

"CARLY!!"

Freddie had realized Carly was there. Great. Once he started forming actual words again, Carly was going to spray me with that stupid spritzer again. She'd started refrigerating it so that it was nice and cold. Can I say that it's really unnecessary to make me wet while I'm indoors? I live in Seattle. I'm rarely fully dry.

"Sam." Apparently, Carly had already figured out that I'd done something. The shouting from upstairs may have tipped her off. "What did you do to him this time?"

I shrugged. "You make me hang out with him, you know."

She rolled her eyes. "You know, I think Freddie was right."

She'd gone up the stairs before I could ask her what she meant.

I stood there for a minute. What was Freddie right about? In my experience, Freddie was rarely right about anything.

But I wasn't one to let something like a little offhand comment ruin my moment. I skipped up the stairs, gleefully anticipating the look on Freddie's face.

AN: And there it begins. Hope you like. Sorry it's short, but I have another fic or two to worry about. Love? Hate? Review!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I'm not sure if I like this yet, but I'm giving myself some time to fall into the rhythm of it. It's a lot different from my usual stuff. Why the new title? I accidentally stole someone else's title (good fic, you should read it), so I decided to change it. Of course, it's like three in the morning, so this is as original as I'm getting right now. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Insert something witty here.

It's official. I've broken something bigger than a toe.

Oops.

There's something interesting about watching Freddie yell. He's got these sort of slit eyes, you know, so if he doesn't say anything, you kinda have to guess at what he's thinking. He can be pretty guarded when he wants to be. But when he's yelling, they pop wide open. Like the cheap blinds my mom gets at Wal-Mart – if you tug on the string just right, they fly up to the rod and then go spinning off into the room.

Sort of the way Freddie was pacing around the room right then.

"WON'T TURN ON … SO EXPENSIVE … NO iCARLY … WILL KILL ME … _SAM!!_"

He had turned a wild kind of red. Carly was chasing after him with the squirt bottle, trying to cool him back down to the right color.

I sighed. "Look, I'm sorry."

Freddie whirled on me and said something in a strained voice that sounded something like, "Ha!"

"Really. I just thought it'd be funny. I didn't mean to break the thing."

He snorted loudly, but his skin dialed itself down to an embarrassing shade of pink. I wished I hadn't messed up his camera right then, because I really wanted to make fun of him being the color of Carly's old Hello Kitty lunchbox.

"She said she's sorry. Voluntarily," Carly added, misting Freddie's shirt earnestly. "Calm down and we can figure this out."

There was a moment were the red rose back up. Then Freddie collapsed on the couch, making sure to be as far away from me as possible.

I looked over at him sheepishly. "I'll pay for it, alright? My Grandpa's likes me; I can get him to send me my birthday money early. And my Christmas. Plus my allowance I've been saving. That's like two hundred. Is that enough? Are we good?"

"Twenty thousand."

I blinked rapidly. "What now?"

Freddie rounded on me. His face was all blotchy now – red here, pink there, a bright white around the nostrils. "A new camera will cost twenty thousand dollars."

_Twenty thousand dollars_. The apartment itself was silent trying to absorb it. He was right. It was worth more than my apartment.

It took a full minute to recover. And then I punched his arm.

"WHAT!" I think he meant to say "What was that for," but was now so irked he couldn't get all the words out. Which, I'm sorry about it and all, but it was getting really hard not to laugh.

"How could you leave me alone with something that expensive? You know what I do to things that belong to you!" I punched him again for emphasis.

Carly tilted her head. "She's got a point, Freddie."

His head whipped around. "You're on her side?"

She shook her head. "No. No sides. We need a way to fix this, quick." She deliberately dropped down between us on the couch.

Her presence seemed to calm Freddie down. His color evened out to pleased blush as she scooted a little closer to him. I honestly never know what do at times like those. Laugh? Throw something? Put on some Manilow and back out of the room quietly? Carly says she hates it when me 

and Freddie fight. Sometimes, I'd like her to see what it'd be like if we started being all puppy-dog love, Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, middle school crush-like.

If the thought of acting like that at all – let alone with Freddie – didn't make me want to lose my lunch. And a couple breakfasts. From the last five years.

Freddie, who had put his head between his knees, either to think or because his own sappiness had made him want to toss a couple meals, resurfaced, back to being a plain old Freddie color. Disappointing. "I've got a pretty good hand-held that I can hook up to my laptop. But if we want to TwisterVision and stuff like that, we gotta get a new camera."

"Ok. Ok, so we pool our money." Carly paused for a moment. "So Sam's got two hundred dollars. I can get like five hundred. Dad's always all guilty cuz he's never around, so he's like one of those ATMs that go haywire and spit money at you."

"I've got four thousand," Freddie said dejectedly. Off my look, he explained, "I've been saving up for a telescope for a while now."

"A telescope? Dude, you're like the poster child for weird hobbies."

"Sam!"

"And I'm still really sorry about your camera," I added, eyeing the squirt bottle still in Carly's hand. Sometimes she filled it with coffee. I was already getting sprayed with soda after this, at the very least – there was absolutely no reason to encourage her to up the ante.

Carly ignored me, turning instead to Freddie. "Maybe we can auction stuff off on iCarly. Like old books and games and stuff. And maybe we can get Spencer to give us a sculpture or something."

"That's an awesome idea," I stifle the urge to make a comment – I'm really not good at being apologetic, really, "but it's still not enough.

That's when Carly got all fake happy. "Well," she said, far too cheerfully, "that's why I thought you two could get a job."

"What?" Freddie asked, his eyes popping again.

"Why not you?" I asked. I'd been expecting the job thing since "twenty thousand dollars."

Carly laughed. "I have to take care of Spencer, not to mention the two of you. Who do you think gets the groceries and does our laundry?"

"I don't … wait …" Freddie looked over at me. "You make her do your laundry?"

I nodded. "My mom's not doing it, and I'd probably blow up the washer or something."

"Besides," Carly barreled on, "it's your camera, Freddie, and you're the one who broke it, Sam."

"And?" I knew there was more. And I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

"And if you two spend a lot of time together, I'm pretty sure you'll either learn to get along or kill each other – and right now, I'm fine either way.

Knew it.

Crud.

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"Welcome to Groovy Smoothies. Can I interest you in Funky Chunky Monkey?"

God, if you exist, I could really use a lightning bolt right about now.

AN: I'm really not sure how good this is because, as I've mentioned, it's like three in the morning … actually, three thirty now. I'm going to bed. Love? Hate? Review!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: So this was supposed to be longer than it ended up being, but it works. It's a little closer to the tone I eventually want to establish here, but still a little outside the ballpark. But I've videos to make and other stories to write (plus all that other non-fan stuff that takes up my time), so I've got to let it be for now. I hope you like my incarnation of Sam's mom.

Disclaimer: If I owned iCarly, we'd find out why it is each kid seems to have only one parent. Where the hell did they all go?

Total: 4,700

Still Need: 15,300

The morning of my first day of work, my mom got up early (for her) to wish me luck. She kept saying that this proved that me hanging out with Carly was a good idea, and maybe I'd be the first Puckette to never see the inside of a jail cell. Then she made me breakfast. She poured orange juice into my Cap'n Crunch instead of milk, but I ate it anyway. I mean, she cared enough to try, right?

Plus, Freddie's mom makes him eat Cream Corn Puffs, so you take what you can get.

"You're such a good girl," Mom said, looking through her bleary ten AM eyes at me tucking into my yellow-brown cereal. "Tammy's kid got juvvie at fifteen. And look at you! That Carly's a good one, she is. Freddie too. Aw, darlin', your Daddy'd be so proud of you."

I almost choked on my spoon. "Sure, Mom."

"He was a good one, too. He wasn't ever a lay-about like Tammy's husband, a'right? He kept down a job. Still sends us a check every couple months."

Yep. He's a knight in shining armor, my dad.

"I know, Mom." I slurped up the rest of my food and place a orange-smelling kiss on Mom's ashy cheek. "You're going to work today right?"

She nodded dreamily.

"And not in a bikini? Because the court did not rule in your favor last time."

Another nod.

"Good." I adjusted her limp shirt collar. "I'm gonna go get some of my old stuff to sell on iCarly. And if you need me …"

"I think I'll go back to sleep now," Mom decided suddenly. She shuffled off, and for the first time I noticed she was still wearing her slippers.

"Great." I was going to have to get my neighbor Gary to wake her up on his way out to yoga again. Gary thought that our whole single parent family thing was adorable.

"Like Gilmore Girls," he said. "Only you have me instead of Luke. Which is so sad, because Luke was like Clark Kent in a baseball cap."

Back in my room, I rifled through some of my old stuff. Not much of it was worth anything – I'm a breaker by nature, so most of my things have some sort of tear, scratch, or crack in it. The dolls Mom gave me when I was little had melted faces and were missing limbs here and there. I had not liked dolls. I definitely liked messing them up.

Lying stomach down on my bed, I reached down for a shoebox tucked away in a corner under my bed, hidden behind my box of sweaters put away for the summer. There wasn't much point in hiding it, if the inches of dust covering the sweater box was any indication, but secret things should be hidden, even if no one's looking for it.

The graying cardboard of the box felt smooth in my fingers as I carefully removed the lid. It was maybe the only thing I'd ever actually attempted to preserve.

On the top was a small stack of cash with the bank bands still on them. I leafed through it thoughtfully for a minute. It was what was left over from the TechFoot money. The cash had disappeared slowly over the last year or so, covering Mom's butt with the electric company and our landlord, but there was still a couple thousand. It was almost worth giving it up to avoid drudge hours 

with Fredwardo, but I remembered Mom, heading back to bed in her duck slippers, her new work shirt already wrinkled, and I thought better of it.

Besides the money, most of my stuff was junk. A stub from the one and only baseball game Mom ever took me to (Gary took to me a couple, but it wasn't the same – I wanted to talk box scores, not if the pitcher was cuter than the shortstop). A pack of cards that I'd used to win my first poker game with the middle-age bachelors on the third floor. They'd taught me pool, too, but I was too short and impatient to get good at it. Jordan said they'd be the one to teach me how to do shots when I was old enough, but I'm pretty sure that was a joke. Gary'd kill them if they tried.

Then there were some things from iCarly – gag pieces from Messin' With Lewbert, confetti from our 50th episode, the picture I'd ripped out of the Jonas World Record Book – but I wasn't giving up any of that. A note from Freddie's mom that mentioned their mother-son day, including spa treatments, which I stolen from his lunch; I thought it had definite future pranking potential. On the bottom, folded into the tiniest square possible, was the iCarly shirt Carly had given me. I had to be Rodney's personal scalper for a month to get that back.

And next to the shirt was a postcard from Dad. He'd sent it the Christmas after he'd left. It was a picture of Berlin, where he said he worked now. Dad was always a pretty big liar, though. The postcard had come with one of those expensive wooden Christmas ornaments, the little nutcrackers that are bakers or Santa or something. I didn't write back, and he didn't send anything else. But I'd kept the ornament, sitting right next to the postcard.

I tossed it into my backpack with some other things I thought might sell and left the apartment, pausing only to call out to Gary about my mother over the sounds of his new Mama Mia DVD.

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"There will be no eating of the yogurt while on breaks. We will notice if the strawberries go missing. You will be fired if you put anything in the blender that's not smoothie related. You will be fired if you steal from the register. You will be fired if you tape lewd pictures of our regional manager on the selection board … that's a new one …"

If I hadn't already died a little inside from the complete and utter boredom of it all, I would've asked about those pictures – who did it, how they got the pictures, and was there a generous severance package?

Instead, I snuck a look at Freddie. They didn't get that many new employees at once at Groovy Smoothies, so they'd synchronized our schedules for the first couple of weeks, meaning we'd be trained at the same time.

Freddie had produced a little notepad and miniature pencil – his mom's afraid off the big one since she walked in on us watching The Dark Knight … that scene with the Joker and the disappearing pencil – almost as soon as the manager, "Chuck," had started talking. But by now, even diligent Fredward had lost his bright enthusiasm; the little pencil had dropped and rolled under the counter a few minutes ago, and his eyes were unfocused.

Well, there was something to do.

Carefully as possible, I reached around to the ingredients stacked piled in their plastic bins behind me. Grapes … some sort of melon … there we go.

"WHAAAAAA!!"

The little notebook went flying off in the direction of the blender as Freddie tried to retrieve half a smushed banana from the back of his shirt. Chuck's eyes widened.

"Stop! Stop! _What did I say about playing with the merchandise?_"

"He wasn't paying attention to your lecture," I defended half-heartedly. "Stand still." And I reached back down in his shirt and pulled out the offending fruit.

"_Ten cents out of your paycheck!" _Chuck breathed, his nostrils flaring like crazy, so that almost came in contact with his comically large coke-bottle glasses. He marched off, muttering some things about troublemakers and what Captain Kirk would do about insubordinates like us.

Whatever. Trekkie.

Sighing brutally, I turned around to Freddie. It was about then that I noticed he was the death glare he was shooting my way.

"What?"

AN: Abrupt? Yes. Do I care? At the moment, not so much. I got stuff to do. Love? Hate? Review!


	4. Chapter 4

AN: I can't write the new chapter for "To Come Home," so I tried writing a chapter for this, but instead of curing my writer's block, it just sort of transferred it. I saved two of the scenes I was going to write for this chapter until the next one in hopes it comes out better. In the meantime, I apologize for this – just know that I did the best that I could under the circumstances.

Disclaimer: If I owned iCarly, the love interest would not have been named Jake. What is with the name Jake and teen show love interests? Not a bad name, but certainly an overused one, and that is why Jake Krandall will not be showing up in any of my fics.

Total: 4,699.90

Need: 15,300.10

Mangos?

No.

Mangos?

No.

What the heck did a mango look like, anyway?

Two hours into my shift, and it was abundantly clear that I was not cut out for the smoothie business. I mean, first of all, I didn't like people. Second of all, I didn't like hippie-type, smoothie-drinking people. And finally, I didn't like hippie-type, smoothie-drinking people who couldn't order something with one easily recognizable fruit in it.

Where was that dang mango?

This was not entirely my fault. I really was trying. Even if I'd rather kiss Lewbert's wart than tell him, I did kinda feel bad about Freddie's camera. It had gotten him three of the four dates he'd ever been on. But come on. Do you really think that my mom has a thing for mangos? My mom? She doesn't even remember to buy milk. I buy the milk. And the bread. And the everything else.

And I certainly don't go looking for mangos at the corner market with the "Buy three boxes of Cheerios, get a pack of Camel Light free" special.

Ok. So that fruit over there was new … but it's green. Mangos aren't green, right?

A loud "Hhhhrrummph" came from behind me. I turned to see the woman who'd ordered the mystery ingredient smoothie glaring at me and tapping her foot. Oh sure, lady. Like you have anywhere to go in that track suit, looking like the eighties threw up all over you. And hint, hippie dip? Neon yellow is not a color found anywhere in nature.

"Sam?"

"What, Freddo?" I replied distractedly. The smell of the fruit was now seriously getting to my head. And all the colors. What was that? Fuchsia? That should not be found in nature either.

"What are you looking for?"

Startled, I glanced up at Freddie. His eyes were firmly glued on the boxes of fillings in front of us; I had no idea how to read his expression.

"Miss? Miss?"

Track Suit Lady was getting pretty antsy. You know, it was times like this that made me wish that I had the self-control to refrain from teasing those closest to me. It was those anger issues, coming to bite me in the butt. I had no idea if he was going to show me the right thing or laugh in my face for needing help or what.

There wasn't anything for it. "Mango," I admitted as quietly as possible.

Something between a smirk and understanding flittered over Freddie's face, but his voice was unemotional when he murmured back, "The bright orange one on the right."

"Oh." I didn't mention that I'd thought it was cantaloupe. Carly tried to make me eat cantaloupe every once in a while to take the place of the broccoli I never touched – the nutrients were similar or something. "Thanks."

It was Freddie's turn to be surprised at the expression of gratitude; his eyebrows were practically scraping the bottom of his NSync haircut. I was far too distracted to notice. I'd already turned to what was my favorite part of the job – blending.

"Sam."

"Yeah?" There was a jank sort of smell coming from the blender. I was not regretting my years without mangos. "Grab a cup."

"Well, I was thinking," Freddie said, all casual, holding out the cup as I poured, "that maybe you could make the smoothies and I could take the orders."

"What do we do about the foreign fruit thing?" I asked as I capped the cup and stuck a straw through the four-way petal hole at the top.

"I can use my new label maker to mark them for our other shifts, and you can ask me about the others today."

"Dude, seriously? A label-maker? Like I don't make fun of you enough."

With great dignity, Freddie handed the drink over to Track Suit Lady. "We apologize for the delay. Thank you for your business." Turning back around, he snapped hoarsely, "Well, if you don't want my help …"

"Sorry." I nudged him with my elbow. "Sensitive, aren't you?"

"Sam!"

I laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. So go take that guy's order already."

There was a pause, during which Freddie's nose and mouth crumpled together as he tried to figure out if I'd agreed or just insulted him. He settled for snorting indignantly before going over to the customer in question.

Chuckling, I looked down at the rows of boxes. What had that guy just said? Kiwi? Wasn't a kiwi a bird?

I was appreciating that label-maker more and more.

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The lockers of the back room clanked and the back door flapped open and shut as older employees ran off to spend what was left of their Saturday as far away from their place of employment as possible. I lagged behind to look around a little. I foresaw myself spending a lot of time here. Any place that wasn't my house, you know?

None of the bright colors and 60s sensibility that decorated the store was anywhere to be found. Exposed pipes leaked onto the top of the lockers, resulting in a giant rust spot with a greenish tint to it. The couch had lumps, holes, and clumps of stuffing jutting out at odd spots. Plastic chairs in various states of broken were scattered through the rest of the small room. One large lamp swung from the ceiling, providing intermittent yellow tinted light that bounced off the walls and created deep shadow pockets in the corners of the jutting walls.

Rundown, sure. But it didn't smell any worse than when Mom forgot we had a cat and threw the litter box in the dumpster. Cat pee plus carpeted apartment equals rank smell for days.

"You ready?" Freddie was standing by the entrance, his backpack strapped across his chest.

"Why? Do you really need me to walk you across the street? Remember, green means go, red means stop, and walking in front of a bus? Always a good idea."

"iCarly starts in a half hour," he pointed out, "but thank you so much. Your insults and thinly veiled threats make my day."

Shaking my head, I yanked my locker open forcibly so that it made a nice clanging sound. "Freddie, I wouldn't do it if it weren't so easy."

"Wow. It's like a giant hug with words."

"That's what I'm here for." I dragged my bag out and did this sort of half-skip thing to him. "You ready to brave the streets of Seattle?"

He scowled. "Only if you get run over by a truck."

Laughing, I pushed my way through the door. "Dream on, kid. A train could hit me and it probably wouldn't even make a dent. I'm too tough."

He hurried to catch up with me. His foot caught on a bit of sidewalk, making his backpack rise up to whack him on the back of his head. Rubbing the newly injured spot gingerly, he commented, "You know, I sometimes worry you actually believe stuff like that."

"So you're worried about me?"

"Less and less." And he shot ahead of me as the street light changed, signaling us forward.

"Hey!" Dodging through the other pedestrians, I managed to catch the strap of his bag, pulling him back to me. "You know, you'd think you'd get used this by now."

Freddie readjusted his shirt – I'd accidently yanked it practically into his neck with my unconventional halting methods – and sighed. "Abuse is not something you get used to. It's something you to therapy about."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Do what?" Together we jogged up the stairs of Freddie and Carly's building, pushing through the doors and scurrying past Lewbert, who was currently telling off a couple first-graders about putting unicorns stickers on his wart.

"It made it prettier," one of the little girls, her lip stuck out in a stubborn pout, insisted adamantly.

"Do what?" Freddie asked again once we were in the safety of the stairwell.

"Help me."

He shrugged, panting. Freddie was never good with stairs. Or any type of physical exertion, for that matter. It was one of the many reasons he got regular wedgies after gym. "You'd do it for me."

My nose scrunched up. "Really? Because if I'd known what mangos smelled like, I think I'd probably have stuck that down your back instead of the banana."

"No, I mean," a pause here for a deep breath; you'd think he didn't have to this every time the elevators broke down, which was often, "like when Duke was on me and you pulled him off. Or when you tried to cheer me up after Valerie turned out to be such a skunk pack …"

"Bag."

" … bag." With a look of relief, Freddie walked out onto the landing. "And I knew you were trying to make up for the camera, and I want you to make up for the camera, fiscally speaking, so I helped. Even though you mocked my label-maker."

"Only because it's so mockable." I put my hand on his shoulder to stop him before he opened Carly's door. "This whole helping stuff … it's like a sort of almost-friends thing? Like … we don't exactly like each other, but you don't want me to look like an idiot and I don't someone to rip your head off?"

Freddie seemed kind of distracted by the fact that my hand was on him. I think he was trying to figure out whether I was maybe going to yank his shirt over his eyes or rip off the pocket or hang him by his collar on the light fixture. "Um … yeah, I guess."

"Ok." I nodded. "Thanks, then, label-boy."

I went into the Shay's apartment, leaving a slightly surprised Freddie standing in the hall.

AN: Gah. I don't know. At any rate, something had to be done and I did it. I promise to work much harder next chapter so that you have something brilliant to make up for this. Love? Hate? Review!


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